Part 13 (2/2)

Cicero almost laughed as relief surged through his body in waves. But when he began to smile, the priest slammed him back against the wall so hard his teeth clicked. ”Come on, man,” Cicero said. ”How's about backin' off, huh?” The priest stared at him coldly, keeping that hand clenched on Cicero's s.h.i.+rt.

”What kind of filth was in that packet?” he rumbled. ”Heroin? Answer me before I break your neck, culebra!”

Cicero snorted. ”You ain't gonna break no neck, Mr. Priest. That's against your religion.”

With a sharp twist of his shoulder, the man flung Cicero to the ground. ”Hey!” Cicero squawked. ”You crazy or somethin'?”

”How long have you been dealing heroin to Miguel and his wife?”

”I don't know no d.a.m.ned Miguel.”

”Who else have you been selling to?”

Cicero started to get up, but the priest moved forward with fists clenched, so Cicero stayed where he was. ”Sellin'? I ain't sellin' nothin'!”

”All right, suppose we let the police decide that, si?” Cicero's hand began the long creep back to his pocket. ”Look, old white collar, you don't want to mess with me, understand? I don't want to hear no talk 'bout cops. Now you're gonna step aside and let me go on my way.”

”Get up,” the priest said.

Cicero rose slowly, and by the time he'd straightened, he had the blade hidden in the hand that dangled loosely behind him. ”I said you're gonna let me pa.s.s!” he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”Do what I tell you!”

”I've been looking for you for a long time, ever since I knew Miguel and his wife were hooked on that trash. And you've been selling to Victor DiPietro and Bernardo Palamer, haven't you?”

”I don't know what the f.u.c.k you're talkin' about.” Cicero grinned widely, and then the tongue of steel lapped at hot sunlight. ”Move out of my way, man!” The priest looked at the blade but didn't move. ”Put that down or I'll make you eat it.”

”I ain't never stuck no white collar before, but I will if you pushes me! And by G.o.d you're pus.h.i.+n' me right now! Ain't n.o.body pushes Cicero Clinton, understand?”

b.a.s.t.a.r.do,” the priest said quietly. ”I'll stick that knife up your a.s.s and send you running home to your momma.”

”Huh?” Cicero said, stunned for a second by the priest's language. That second of hesitation spelled his doom for, right in the middle of it, the priest's fist came flying out of thin air and crashed against the side of Cicero's head. As Cicero staggered back, he flailed out with the knife, but his wrist was suddenly caught in a crus.h.i.+ng vise; he shrieked in pain and dropped the blade. Then another fist filled his vision, bloodily knocking a few teeth into his mouth.

Cicero started to go down, but then the priest grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and was dragging him along the alley. On Machado Street, in full view of a number of people who had watched the whole thing from their windows, the priest picked up Cicero and jammed him down into a garbage can.

”You ever come back to my streets,” the priest said, ”I'll have to get rough with you. Comprende?”

”Yeth,” Cicero croaked, spitting out blood and bits of enamel. When he tried to struggled out of the can, black waves crashed over him and sent him spinning down to the bottom of the sea.

”Hey! Father Silvera!” someone called out, and the priest turned. A small boy in blue jeans and scuffed white sneakers was running toward him. When the boy was near enough to see the arms and legs sticking out of the garbage can, he stopped and stared, openmouthed.

”h.e.l.lo, Leon,” Father Silvera said. He rubbed the skinned knuckles of his right hand.

”Why aren't you in school today?”

”Uh ... I don't know.” He stepped back as one of Cicero's arms twitched. ”I didn't do my homework.”

”That's not an excuse.” Silvera looked at him sternly. ”Your father let you stay home from school?”

Leon shook his head. ”I have to take care of my sister. Papa didn't come home last night.”

”He didn't come home? Where did he go?”

”Out.” The boy shrugged. ”He said for me to stay home with Juanita, and he was going to play cards. That was last night.”

”He didn't go to work today?”; Leon shook his head again, and Silvera's shoulders sagged forward slightly;5, he'd helped Sandor La Paz get that job at the garage, he'd even vouched for the good-for-nothing b.a.s.t.a.r.do. Now Sandor had probably lost a week's wages in a card J game with the neighborhood hustlers, and he was drinking himself into a stupor in a bar. ”Are you and Juanita okay?”

”Si, Father. We're doing good.”

”Did you eat anything for breakfast?”I The boy shrugged. ”Taco chips. But I gave Juanita a gla.s.s of milk.”

”Your papa left some money for you?”

”A little bit in a drawer.” His face clouded over slightly. ”He's gonna come back home, isn't he?”

”Of course he will. He's probably home right now. You'd better get back there yourself and keep and eye on Juanita. She's too young to be left alone. Hurry now. I'll be by later this afternoon.”

Leon beamed and started to turn away, then suddenly he heard a soft moan that didn't come from the man in the garbage can. When Leon looked back, he saw Father Silvera wiping sweat off his forehead with the palm of a trembling hand.

”Father?” he asked. ”You all right?”

”Yes. Hurry on now. I'll see you later. Go!”

The boy scurried on away. He felt better now that Father Silvera was going to come by to see him. If the padre said things were going to be all right, then they would be. And Papa would be home, too, just like he said. Truly, he was a miracle man.

Silvera was aware of the people watching him from their windows. Not now! he told himself. Please don't let it happen now! When he let his hand hang by his side, it jumped and twitched with erratic spasms. He felt a boil of anger at the pit of his stomach, and suddenly he kicked over the garbage can, spilling Cicero out over the curb into the gutter. Cicero stirred and began to stagger to his feet. ”Remember,” Silvera said. ”Don't come back around here. I'll be looking for you.”

Cicero struggled behind the wheel of the Imperial and started the engine. Then he spat blood toward Silvera and shouted, ”I'll get you, c.o.c.ksucka!” Then the car roared away from the curb, leaving a blue haze of exhaust and scorched rubber.

Silvera thrust his hands in his pockets and began to walk away from those watchful eyes. He'd made it around the corner when the bile came up volcanically from his stomach; he leaned over and threw up against a wall, and as he was heaving, he could feel both hands jittering in his pockets as if pulled by unseen strings. He took them out, leaned his back against the graffitied wall, and watched the fingers jerk, the veins twitching under the flesh. They seemed to belong to someone else because he had no control over them anymore, and he never knew when the spasms would start or stop. The spasms hadn't yet begun their slow creep up his forearms, as the kind doctor at County General had told him they would. But it was just a matter of time. The death dance of the muscles, once begun, was irreversible. After a moment more he walked on, past more sunburned apartment buildings and more low, dusty houses jammed in between brick walls. The barrio seemed to go on forever, one narrow garbage-strewn street after another. The place smelled of rotting, stifled souls to Silvera, the reek of corpses that had died at the dead ends in the huge, tangled maze of life. There is so much to do, he told himself as he walked. So much to do and so little time. He was going to have to find Miguel and Linda and get them off that h.e.l.lish junk, but it would be hard. Once hooked, it was easier to drift in that limbo of heroin-induced dreams than to face the stark reality of life. Silvera knew; he had the needle track on the insides of both his elbows to show for two years of life on the edge of b.e.s.t.i.a.lity. So much to do and so little time. G.o.d help me, he thought. Please give me strength. And time. Please.

At the end of the block, he could see the bell tower of his church pressed close between tenement buildings. The tower was painted white, and through the open shutters the large bra.s.s bell caught a shard of golden sunlight. Silvera had found that beautiful bell in the abandoned mission of a town called Borja, near the Mexican border. The town had been almost deserted, and it exuded a strange aura of old evil. One of the remaining residents had told Silvera that several years before a man who'd called himself Baal had come to the town and since then Borja had been tainted. Silvera had brought that bell back from the desert in a pickup truck over a hundred miles of winding, sun-scorched road. He'd rigged a hoist and with the help of a few neighborhood men had lifted the bell to the tower. He'd worked on it many weeks, polis.h.i.+ng away the last of the corrosion, and now it sang-joyful and clear to beckon all to Sunday Ma.s.s or announce Sat.u.r.day weddings, solemnly mournful tolling for a funeral procession-as a symbol of the Church of Our Sainted Mary. Not very long ago a crack had appeared at the very top of the bell and now was gradually snaking its way down to the rim. The bell's destiny was clear, and yet it had so much more work to do. Silvera smiled when he thought of what Leon and several of the other children called it-Mary's Voice.

Father Silvera reached his church and climbed a few rickety wooden steps to the front door. He was feeling better now; he'd stopped sweating, and his hands weren't trembling nearly as much as they had been. It had been the strain of throwing that heroin dealer around that had done it. He knew better than to do things like that, but he was still a bullishly strong man, and in this case his temper had gotten the best of him.

Inside, the church was almost claustrophobic with the wooden pews packed closely together, and a wine-red runner spread along the narrow aisle from front door to altar. Atop the altar stood a heavy bra.s.s crucifix, brightly polished, on an ornate base. Behind that altar with its chipped ceramic statue of Mary cradling Christ child in her arms was a large oval stained-gla.s.s window that split the light into a kaleidoscope of white, azure, violet, umber, and emerald green. In the, window's center was a representation of Jesus carrying a staff and behind him a green knoll dotted with sheep. On sunny days His eyes were circles of kind, warm brown light; on cloudy days His gaze turned stormy, the light stern and grayish.

It intrigued Silvera to watch those changes and reminded him that even Jesus Christ has His bad days.

Silvera walked through the church to his living quarters, his steps sounding hollow on the wooden floor. It was a single room, painted white, with a thin mattressed bed, a chest of drawers, a reading lamp, and a sink in the corner. There was a shelf of hard-cover books, most of them more political and sociological than theologic: Future Shock by Alvin Tofler, The Politics of Evil by James N. Virga, Drawing Down the Moon by Margot Adler. On another, lower shelf was a toaster and a hot plate, neither of which worked particularly well. The walls were decorated with crayon drawings given to him by some of the younger children in his parish-sailboats skimming a green ocean, stick figures waving from windows, rainbow-colored kites among the clouds. There was a ceramic crucifix hanging near the door, a bright travel poster that said See Mexico's Wonders, and a framed painting of a fis.h.i.+ng village featuring nets drying in the sun. It reminded him of the village he'd been born in, Puerto Grande on the Gulf of Mexico. Another door led into a tiny bathroom with a noisy toilet and a stuttering shower. He crossed the room, drew water from the sink into a drinking cup, and gingerly tasted it. Not so bad today, he thought. He drank it down gratefully, spilling only a few drops on his s.h.i.+rt because his hand wasn't trembling quite so much.

And then he listened; he thought he'd heard the front door open and close. Yes, there was the noise of footsteps now. He put the cup aside and hurried out.

There was a young man standing at the altar, staring up at the stained-gla.s.s window. He wore a pale blue s.h.i.+rt and faded, tight-fitting denims. His eyes were dark and haunted, very tired-looking. Silvera stopped and looked at the young man, hardly recognizing him. ”Rico?” he said quietly. ”Is that Rico Esteban?”

”Yes, Father,” Rico said. ”It's me.”

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